“Think about it. We can sense only four or five flavors with the tongue — salty, sweet, bitter, sour, and one more, I think. That’s it. We taste chicken or beef or cabbage or spinach because of the smell. So, they’ve admitted to having a picnic with the smell of barbecued flesh in the air. What does that tell you?”

“But, that doesn’t mean they actually ate the flesh.”

“It means they tasted the flesh, while chewing on chicken or whatever. And it means they had no problem with that. Could you eat meatballs in gravy with the smell of doo-doo in the air?”

“No, but … “

“And let me ask you something else. What about the relics?”

“The relics?”

“Yeah. The relics. They cut pieces off and kept them — so they say — as relics. Well, if they kept them, where are they?”

“Threw them away, I guess.”

“And the pictures. Why would they keep the pictures and throw away the relics? And take a close look at the faces in those pictures. Just look at them. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“I see what you mean. I can’t get those faces out of my mind. With the freshly barbecued flesh right there. It’s like one of those horror movies, and they are the zombies. Wondering, maybe, why you can’t see what they are.”

“They ate them. The delicacies. Believed it gave them potency. Rushed to be first to get to the body. Yes, they ate them. That’s why the relics are gone.”

“This is hard to … uh … digest.”

“That’s not the worst part.”

“What do you mean?”

“The worst part is this — The grandchildren, and children, of the people who ate that flesh are alive and walking among us.”

“Wow. I never thought about that.”

“Ever eat nigga-meat?”

“What!“

“That’s probably what they ask each other. ‘Ever eat nigga-meat?’ Their grandparents ate it and not only do they wonder what it tastes like, they still have a craving for it. Imagine. Generation after generation, chowing down on nigga-meat. The craving is still there. I can tell.”

“How?”

“The way they look at us. How would you look at your cow or your chicken if it started sassing you, walking around like it was your equal? And then, they are still killing us — can’t help themselves. Put on uniforms so they can make it look like “law enforcement”. But they are almost overpowered by the craving to kill and eat us. It’s driving them crazy. Their country has been taken over by nigga-flesh, and they can’t even eat it.

“And then look at that senator. You can see it in his face. You can see it in his eyes. This black man strutting around as President, smiling and articulating — when he should be dinner. The man can barely contain himself. And look at his features. Now, if that fleshly deformity hasn’t feasted on nigga-meat, how could he possibly look like that? Not just his parents or his grandparents, he has feasted on nigga-meat himself. And loved it. I have no doubt.”

“I am starting to see white people in a new light.”

“And consider this. If my math is right, at least one white person in a hundred — in the Southern states — is a child or grandchild of a nigga-meat eater. Elsewhere, it is closer to one in a thousand. That means that in a Southern state with five million white people, some fifty thousand are — shall we say? — children of the flesh. And that means that of the estimated twenty-five million white people in California, some twenty-five thousand are children or grandchildren of nigga-flesh eaters. Next time you go to the mall, or to a concert or football game — think about this — a lot of those white people have a conscious or unconscious craving to feast on your barbecued flesh.”

“I will never leave my house again.”

“And how many black people just disappear. How many of those millions of black men who go into the prisons, don’t come out? And what about barbecue?”

“B-barbecue?”

“Yeah, barbecue. In these parts, people just love their barbecue. Uhn! But, whenever I see it, whenever I smell it, I’m just wishing that it’s actually pork, because it just doesn’t smell like pork to me. Tell me, do you ever eat barbecue?”